Black & White
by Bobbie
Summary: Mind the rating. Made a few minor changes to the first chaptergetting revved up to post a second one aftergaspa mindblowing three years. For those paying attention, I hope it's worth the wait.


_Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were._

_A/N: This is something that I came across while doing some cleaning on my comp. I have no idea just how long it's been sitting on this disk, but I read it over and kicked myself for not having continued it. Obviously, this story takes place not so long after Gambit returned to the team, having been abandoned to Antarctica by Rogue. Feel free to admonish me for inconsistencies…I'm not an expert on the timeline. Hopefully, having the basics in mind, you'll be able to wade through this quite easily._

**Chapter One**

For the first time in his rather fickle history with women, it had nothing to do with sex. How could it ever be, when touching wasn't an option?

Perhaps it was the something-he-could-never-have quality that lured him to her. He always did prefer a challenge. It was that penchant that tended to get him into more trouble than he could handle at times. He sighed, long-held cigarette smoke slowly escaping through his lips and nostrils as he shifted slightly upon his perch on the dock, bare feet dangling limply over the edge, toes rippling the surface of the dark water. The night breeze was cool and moist against his exposed chest, soft gusts sending auburn shocks billowing back from his face now and again, causing the cherry of his cig to glow eerily in the pitch-blackness that engulfed him. It was a moonless night, and a heavy summer mist blanketed the Westchester countryside, lending an opaque quality to the starlight. Nothing like July in the bayou but close enough to stir crystallized memories nonetheless.

It seemed he'd sacrificed so much for this group since he'd come to be with them. He'd like to kid himself and say he could just as easily disappear into the fold without so much as a second thought. So what were his reasons? Why did he compromise his closely guarded privacy? Why did he let them see as much as they had? Why did he keep coming back? A million clichés to make it black and white. What it came down to was this: The world wasn't big enough. They always seemed to find him, just when he was beginning to get in the groove of being on his own again. No matter what, he couldn't change. He'd always be a thief at heart. And a fool for one woman.

A woman he knew no more about than the very first day he laid his eyes on her. How much would he have to keep giving? How much would he have to want, to need, before the message got through? So many times, they'd both agreed that they should leave well enough alone. But he couldn't. As long as he lived and breathed, she would have a hold on him.

He smirked, shoulders heaving briefly in a half-hearted shrug, a curt laugh escaping before he took one last long drag, tossing the butt into the lake with a deft flick. "You're a pat'etic mope, LeBeau," he murmured, his lazy drawl accentuating his Cajun dialect, dull red eyes unseeing as they lingered on the spot where his cigarette had disappeared beneath the surface. Another sigh was given before he pushed himself to his feet; hands slipping into his pockets as he gave another look about. Shaking his head, he turned towards the mansion, deciding he'd had a little too much introspection for that evening.

"Any more brooding," he mumbled to himself, "and people might start confusin' me wit' Bishop."

He made it to the grassy banks of the lake, taking his time, and to a perfect stranger one might take him for a vagabond--his faded and worn jeans cuffed and up to his knees, hair stunningly unkempt and hanging to his chin, torso shirtless, and his angled countenance much in need of a shave. He was a plethora of opposing virtues—young and old, carefree and caring, flirtatious and profound, unattached and devoted. The others in the group seemed to come to an unspoken understanding about Remy: To know him was to not know him. With that, they seemed to be satisfied.

Well, most of them, anyway.

Again, his mind drifted as he meandered back to the great house that loomed ominously in the distance. She demanded so much of him. It would never be enough. She was simply too afraid. He couldn't blame her. It gave him some solace in knowing she cared enough to want to distance her from him. Still, hadn't they proved on more than one occasion that time was precious? In no way did he want fear to manipulate whatever might exist between the two of them. Always it came down to what might be the last few moments they would have together, moments drenched with regret and bittersweet longing for more time, moments in which heavy words were spoken so quickly, only to be so easily disregarded once the danger had passed.

He loved her so much. Perhaps not from the very first day they'd met, but certainly now more than ever. He was through with pretending it would just go away, through with thinking that they could ever start over as "just friends". Logic had no place in these matters. He would make her see that, somehow.

He found himself standing just on the threshold, neck arched, eyes squinting up at her window, barely visible from his vantage. She slept, though how peacefully, he wasn't sure. How he longed just to hold her. To convince her that he could never hurt her, no matter what she had done, or could do. To let her know he would never leave her. To tell her without words that he would give anything to allow her to love him as freely as he loved her.

A grimace briefly twisted his features as he tore his gaze away, brow furrowed, mouth drawn into a pensive line. He stood that way for some time, eyes lowered to the ground, hands clenched into fists in his pockets, posture stiff. The muscles in his jaw rippled once…twice…and, noiselessly, he slipped inside.

**---- **

The morning was uncharacteristically calm, given the relative bustle of the past few weeks. No one ever said being squad leader would be easy, and longevity in her line of work spoke volumes. Still, she felt inadequate, especially in their most recent missions. Something was missing. She didn't want to go so far as to say that she was bored. She knew, though, that there was more to life than eating, sleeping, and fighting.

Of course, it was moments like these, rare snatches of free time, in which she would think… and feel. She would think that the professor had made her leader in an effort to, pardon the pun, get her out of his hair for a while. After all, it was becoming painfully obvious that he was delaying helping her with controlling her powers. She wasn't exactly sure of his motives, but it made her angry. She kept telling herself that she was being impatient, but years in the service of the X-men tended to wear out one's endurance for waiting. She had a life to live, one that couldn't begin until she, and not her powers, was at the wheel.

And then she would contemplate the possible outcomes. What resolutions? Where would she begin? Where would she go? What would she do? Such thoughts always seemed to begin and end with one person. She couldn't deny the gravity she associated with him. It was foolish to tell herself that he meant no more to her than any other X-man…and yet, she found herself often treating perfect strangers with greater kindness.

She glanced over at the clock on the nightstand positioned by her bed. It was only a little after eight AM, but she couldn't lull herself back to sleep, even if she wanted to. Taking a deep breath, she heaved herself up, throwing her legs over the edge of the mattress and stretching lengthily. She sat there for a moment, letting her hair fall into her face as she focused on the floor beneath her feet, clutching the edge of the bed as she fell into a momentary reverie.

It had been weeks, it seemed, since they'd last spoken to one another. It wasn't as though they were purposely avoiding one another; they belonged on different squads, and he'd taken to going off by himself more and more lately, especially in the evenings. She didn't dwell on what he did during his time away from the rest of them—she'd imposed this distance regardless of whether she really wanted it or not. It really was for the best…wasn't it?

Yeah. Doing what was right, what was proper, always did make her feel like shit.

She jumped from the bed, donning her slippers and a robe, twisting her hair into a loose knot at her nape and fetching a hair clip from her vanity on the way out the door. The hallways were delightfully quiet, and she wondered if she might be the first one up that morning. That thought was quickly dismissed when she caught sight of a freshly showered Logan disappearing in the direction of the main foyer as she descended the staircase to the first floor. She made no effort to announce her presence, footfalls light as she shuffled across the hardwood floors towards the kitchen. She enjoyed this subdued peace, a genuine quiet brought about by late nights and hard work. No malice here. It was something worth cherishing.

The kitchen was empty as she entered, a smile on her face and a bounce in her step as she made her way to the pantry to fetch some breakfast. She was suddenly light-hearted, perhaps from the lack of an early morning wake-up call from the professor, or from the rays of sunlight that poured unheeded through the kitchen windows, warming the air within and bringing promises of a beautiful day. She fought the urge to pirouette as she moved about, grabbing some orange juice from the fridge and a cup from the cabinet. She was pouring as the swinging door swished softly behind her, and only then did she realize she was humming, an old familiar tune of which she couldn't quite remember the name. Her smile broadened as she capped the juice bottle, turning to greet whomever it might be.

"Mornin', chere."

Her greeting died before making it to her lips, her smile becoming less genuine, more pained, as green eyes met red for what seemed like an eternity. He'd paused with his palm flat against the door, holding it open; his hair was wet and combed back from his freshly shaven face, long errant strands already falling into his eyes as he peered at her from beneath thick lashes. He wore only a threadbare gray t-shirt and worn blue jeans, bare feet padding softly upon the tile, as he was the first to break the stare and move. Her reaction, or lack thereof, seemed to shatter the spell between them, her gaze quickly averting to a random patch on the floor, her chest suddenly painfully constricted. She pivoted around, clutching her glass and the carton of juice as though they were lifelines. She hadn't realized she'd closed her eyes until, when taking a deep breath, she caught a whiff of soap and cologne. His voice, husky and casual as ever, came from close behind her, and she fought not to jump at the nearness of it.

"You done wit' dis?" She forced her eyes open, refusing to turn round for fear of brushing up against him, watching as his hand grabbed the juice carton mere centimeters from her bare skin. She hated that she let him have such an effect on her. And it wasn't that he did it on purpose, really. He'd been bending to her wishes more than to her satisfaction recently; which was more than she should hope for. If anyone were to blame for her feeling this way, it would be her, and her alone. She wasn't being fair to him. But who said life was fair?

She stood motionless, statuesque in her posture, one hand gripping the countertop, the other clutching her glass, eyes downcast. She listened as he shook the nearly empty container, drained its contents in three healthy gulps, and then tossed the carton into the trash. There was a pause, followed by a sigh (God, did everything he do have to be so damn seductive?!), and then the swish of the door as he left her alone in the kitchen once more. The sunlight no longer seemed friendly and warm, but harsh and overwhelming. Angrily, she poured her juice into the sink and pulled down the blinds just in front of her, unable to prevent the one sob that escaped before she turned to traipse back upstairs.

She was stopped in her tracks by the sight of Remy, leaning lazily against the opposite wall, his arms crossed defiantly across his chest, mood dark, one foot planted against the hard surface supporting his weight. She felt a tear spill hastily over her cheek, and cursed softly, wiping the wetness away with the back of her hand. "Dammit, Remy, ya tryin' tah give me a heart attack?"

His expression remained grim, his voice cold. "It better den t'e silent treatment, non?"

She could feel more tears building up, a dam that could not be held up any longer, breaking through. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to fight with him. Not when she was like this. She took a step back, lowering her gaze to the floor, lashes wet with unshed tears. She didn't trust her voice enough to speak.

"I'm goin' ta marry you, chere."

His words, spoken so softly, with such certainty, forced a gasp from her. She no longer cared if he saw her tears, swimming green eyes lifting to meet his once more. One could see her heart breaking, her chin and bottom lip quivering, brow furrowed as she searched for the meaning behind such a profound statement. Before she could question him, he was speaking again, his gaze still leveled on her, as if her obvious pain and confusion did nothing to hinder him.

"I'm tired of pretendin', Rogue. I'm tired of you makin' decisions for t'e bot' o' us. I'm tired of you tellin' me that I can' love you 'cause I can' touch you." He finally seemed to lose the momentum that was driving him forward, tearing his stare away from the tortured look on her face, canting his head to the side and fixing his gaze upon nothing in particular. He didn't really want to see anyway. When she didn't move to take advantage of the silence, his voice again cut through the stillness, gritty and raw with emotion. "An' I'm tired of tryin' to convince myself dat I'll get over you."

His words drove into her, twisting her gut and pressing against her chest with their weight. He gave her no chance to recover, seemingly in a trance himself as he moved from his stance against the wall and exited the kitchen.

She waited seconds, minutes…almost expecting him to return with a retraction, an explanation…anything. When he didn't come back, she succumbed to her emotions, her face twisting into a mask of despair as she slumped against the kitchen table. Salty droplets marred the wooden surface as she sobbed unabashedly, crying for herself, for Remy, for what seemed like a pitiful, desperate, doomed attempt at love.

He was right. He was so right.

**---- **

"Her sadness is….tangible, Professor."

Jean Grey stood with her back to the room, a dismal expression crossing her delicate features as she absent-mindedly surveyed what lie beyond the impressive window that dominated one wall of Xavier's office. It would be another flawless summer day, clouds scarce but billowy against an azure sky. But inside, the weather was proving to be hazardous, as tensions between two beloved members grew to envelop fellow teammates.

Xavier folded his hands, pressing them against his lips, elbows propped upon the armrests of his leather chair. He took several slow, deep breaths, closing his eyes and seemingly exerting some effort to concentrate.

"As is his, Jean. It has yet to damage the efficacy of our team, yet…" He trailed off uncertainly, not really wanting to finish the sentence. How he hated addressing this. It was a catch 22. Both encouraging and discouraging would be equally futile towards reaching a solution. A stalemate had been reached, long ago; unable to advance, unable to back away. Left to fester, unrequited emotions, no matter the intentions, could never bring about any good.

"Something has to be done." Jean, usually so stoic, so controlled, heard the quiver in her own voice and winced inwardly. She turned away from the window, her arms crossed, steps deliberate as she slowly made her way towards his desk. She took a breath, lips parting as though preparing to speak, but a lump in her throat prevented the words from coming. Sudden tears sprang as she met the professor's solemn stare, forcing her to bow her head shamefully. She shook her head, cupping a hand over her mouth and closing her eyes.

_I love them both. Must we choose between them?_ Immobile in the middle of the large Victorian-style room, she couldn't bring herself to physically voice her thoughts, still fighting the sobs that threatened.

The air in the office was depressingly somber, Xavier obviously distraught by Jean's show of emotion. He softly cleared his throat, remaining safe behind the sanctuary of his desk. "There's nothing else that we can do, Jean. Always, I feared that the jeopardy that we face, day to day, would strengthen the common thread that we in the X-men share….in ways that would prove detrimental to our cause. I even feared for you and Scott." A fleeting smile was cast in her direction as she raised her head inquisitively, his pause interrupted by her quiet sniffles. "But something existed between you two that superceded any doubts I might have had. And that was, and still is, trust. Unconditional love is a rare thing, Jean. Even more precious between fellow mutants. I voiced no opposition because, quite frankly, it wouldn't have worked. Nothing could come between you and Scott."

This tangent seemed to momentarily assuage Jean's grief, a bittersweet smile peeking through her tears as she wiped her cheeks carefully.

It was now Xavier's turn to stare out the window from his post, the same troubled look still fixed upon his strong countenance. The silence lengthened between them, an occasional sigh amplified by the relative stillness. Words had yet to be said, but the professor did not want to say them. Jean did instead, her voice raw and laden with sorrow.

"I see what you're trying to say, Professor." He cocked a curious brow in her direction, waiting for her to continue. She drew in a long breath, posture straightening, eyes leveling with his. "Where there is no trust, there can be no love."

Xavier nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so, Jean. We can want all the happiness in the world for Gambit and Rogue…" His hooded gaze broke away, again staring through the window, focusing on something that wasn't there. "But until they desire it enough to overcome any barrier between them, until they can learn to love and be loved in return, without regret…"

Jean nibbled on her bottom lip, finally able to move again as she regained control over the maelstrom within her. She walked with a forced casualness to her stride, pausing at the door as she reached for the handle. Her voice floated to him, soft and melancholy, over her shoulder. "I'm going to talk to Logan."

She closed the door on his words, brusquely wiping away the last of her tears. She didn't have to hear him to know what had been said.

"It's out of our hands."

**----**

It was after noon when Logan reappeared on the grounds of the school, windblown and rugged from his ride on his motorcycle, but for the better. One didn't have to be a genius to recognize that certain people were balancing on a razor; you just had to be a human, and you could feel it, see it. He didn't understand the melodrama that surrounded Rogue and the Cajun. Strike that, yes, he did. Perhaps more than anyone else ever could. He lived that, every day, in his own way. But he didn't let it rule him. He took it in stride, approaching matters of the heart with an astute practicality that some might deem cold, cruel. To him, it was necessary. What worked for him, however, might not work for someone else. Especially when that somebody was as passionate as those two.

He'd taken that morning as an opportunity to get away from the stifling atmosphere within the mansion, to clear his head and relax. One day at a time, living every moment to it fullest. That was what it was all about. The Cajun knew that. Too bad Rogue wasn't getting it. Remy had been relentless, and it pained him to know that with all the team had endured, all that Gambit and Rogue had endured, wasn't enough to finally bring them together for good. Even he wished that life at the mansion could be a little less depressing.

He dismounted the cycle, squatting to inspect the exhaust, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, an involuntary shudder creeping up his spine. A slow blink and a sigh, and he straightened to his full height, not bothering to turn and face the only other person with him in the garage. "Heya, Red."

Jean had been in the process of closing the door that led from the house when his voice greeted her, catching her somewhat off guard. The click of the latch echoed, causing her to wince.

"Logan."

There was falseness to her tone, a forced placidity that wasn't fooling him for a second. She knew that, but forged on anyway. Folding her hands behind her back, she lowered her eyes to the concrete floor, taking careful steps in his direction. "I need to talk…to you."

Logan couldn't help but be suspicious. It was obvious that something was bothering her tremendously, in that she'd come to him to discuss it. It warmed him to know that she trusted him enough to bestow her confidence. She rarely took advantage of that when she was happy, though, and that's what was troubling him. He canted his head slightly, cocking a brow and offering a view of his profile over his shoulder.

"Jean?" He turned half way round, arms hanging at his sides, hands balled into fists—a force of habit, and nothing more. Able to face her, he pressed on. "What's wrong?"

She didn't answer him right away, instead milling aimlessly about the periphery of the garage, coming to stop in the back, the shadows playing eerily with planes and angles of her face. She didn't want him to see her face as she spoke. A foolish effort, but it made the conversation easier.

"You already know. You were thinking about it before I came out here." She sighed wearily, the mere thought of the pending subject matter appearing to exhaust her. "Seems everyone's been thinking about it a lot lately. Including the professor."

It didn't take Logan long to figure out her implications. He followed her with his eyes, relaying his understanding with an exaggerated nod and a soft, "Ah." He waited then, just watching, not quite sure of what to expect next. He just knew it couldn't be good.

Jean took her time in gathering her thoughts. She knew that it wasn't just her own sadness that made disclosing recent events to Logan hard; the overall mood of the entire team weighed down upon her. It was suffocating, stifling. Her earlier words floated back to her…_something has to be done_. Finding an empty space against the wall, she lightly rested her weight against the cool brick, her shoulder blades rubbing against the rough surface through her cotton blouse as she crossed her arms. "The Professor…." She swallowed dryly, closing her eyes and taking another breath. This was harder than she thought it would be. "The Professor is going to ask Gambit and Rogue to leave the team."

An inhuman growl rose out of Logan. _"What?!"_ he snarled, leaning forward over his motorcycle, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"I know." Jean didn't seem to be at all disturbed by Logan's display.

"That's not helping them, Jean. We're…we're—"

"A family." She sounded so forlorn, so lost, so hopeless. "I don't agree with him at all on this. I don't see how what is happening between Remy and Rogue has affected our missions in the least. We're as strong as ever. And they've already proven themselves worthy teammates time and time again."

Logan snorted. "I remember the session in the danger room. A test, to see if Rogue and Gambit could back each other up in spite of their feelings. They passed, with flying colors. What the hell brought this on?"

Jean began to nibble her lip pensively. "Something happened this morning. We all know that they've been tiptoeing around each other for a while, now. It's never really built to a head. To tell you the truth, I never thought it would. But Gambit…" She sighed in frustration, tracing invisible lines on the floor with the toe of her shoe. "I don't think anybody will ever know what goes on inside of him."

"'Cept Rogue," Logan interjected matter-of-factly.

"I don't think even she saw this coming, Logan."

She fell silent, and he nearly took to tapping his toe before voicing his impatience. "Well, what happened, Jean?"

She rolled her head back, neck arched, eyes heavenward. Logan gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching at the sight. She sure knew how to distract a man without knowing it. He didn't prod any further, merely waited for her to say what needed to be said.

"I don't know what happened, Logan. All I know is that it's got Rogue scared to death." She pushed away from the wall, and now he could see the tears that had welled up in her eyes. Determined strides carried her across the garage, meandering around tools and shelves, until she rounded the bike and threw her arms around him, squeezing his neck, her limbs trembling. He was slow to respond, arms wrapping around her lightly, as though he might break her.

"It's okay, Jean. We'll find out what's going on. We'll help them make this right." Her scent filled his nostrils, her touch electrified him, her tears pained his very soul. She seemed to permeate his very being. Slowly, he tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer, rocking slowly as he attempted to soothe her.

"We'll stay together. I promise."


End file.
